flashbacks of a one night stand
Satisfaction, is always temporary-
Can any work of art ever truly be complete?
The sun finds me alone in his room: as I too get dressed.
He is making his way down the stairs—to his friends.
I fear our night drew hastily to a close; I relinquished his lap.
He was soaked in what I imagine is mostly my butt sweat—and I tell him that.
I kiss his chest, his bellybutton, nipples and neck; and the inside of his ears.
For the last time I pin his arms above his head; and feast on his hairy sweaty pits.
What else do humans produce, that can be so consumed?
I like the idea,
of having consumed him,
that my consciousness will be fuelled by his…
The idea that a part of someone else, is now a part of me.
I swirl it around in my mouth; smile as I look into his eyes, and I swallow.
And all my present ideas seem inappropriate.
I hesitate for a moment, realising that I don’t know what to do with a mouth full of cum.
I awkwardly kiss him; trying not to let too much of him, spill over into his mouth.
My other hand around his shaft—stops.
My tongue on the head of his dick—stops.
My finger inside of him—stops.
And for a moment;
I remember to stop, soon after he comes: so as to not overwhelm him.
Two violent bursts fill me: with warm fleshy yolk.
I tell him, I want him to come: And that I want him to come in my mouth.
He says he is close—as he thrusts deeper.
The secret is to start while he is still soft; and to simply ignore the desire to retch as he hardens.
I am getting better at giving head—I think.
As I am so very far away still.
I tell him I can’t come—which is true (but I want to).
He asks if I am close.
I think to myself, sex without coming is like